


Please Eat

by Sinsrose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort Food, Eating, Food Issues, Food Kink, M/M, Sexual Content, bucky isnt fat, but he does have weight in a healthy sense, i dont know what else to throw in here, i just wanted to meta kinda on this, i need feedback on this one, idk - Freeform, sexual content is more of part two when i post it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a glimpse into one thing that bucky has control of since his mind is still a danger. </p><p>   food kink, but not in an unhealthy sense. </p><p>   It takes you a month or two, who’s counting? Who’s really counting? To eat sold food. You had started off with protein shakes, going through over three or four packs of them a day. It was the serum you told yourself. You were trying to adjust. Reality was that, that you were giving yourself what they gave you. That you weren’t good enough. That- food is food. It doesn’t matter what you eat. You just survive. You need it to survive. It tastes chalky and artificial and after a solid month of drinking them you stop. You stop because your stomach feels sick, and your face feels clammy and one of the flavors just makes you think HYDRA and you don’t touch the shakes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Eat

When you’re a ghost trivial things don’t matter. When you don’t exist. When you’re isolated from anything that is remotely even human, you become desensitized. You begin to run on survival, you become trapped between those that hold the knife and your body that wants to live. And you chose the knife digging into your skin over and over again so fear processes into your frame.   
  
   Which brings you to this point. You don’t remember, you don’t recall the pangs of hunger at first. It’s an itching like a bad burning under the skin. The way that saliva pools at the back of your throat, the way that your mouth gets dry. You never used to feed yourself. They took care of you, made sure you got by and it wasn’t in the best way but you got by. You aren’t used to the pangs at the back of your throat. They’ve trained you to ignore, to let them go. To not consider them needs.   
  
You haven’t actually been this hungry before because what they gave you left you not hungry for days on end. You never remember actually eating, you just know they gave you something. You never remember it, you just remember the way the electricity makes your body convulse. But that doesn’t matter anymore. They don’t matter. They aren’t here.   
  
      And it takes you three days with the pangs at the back of your throat to tell you. It takes you seventy-two hours to realize that your body needs something. Between the light-headed dizzy spells and your tongue feeling dry. And the fact that you don’t need to waste away. You can eat. You aren’t confined to what they shove into your mouth. You don’t need to eat what they give anymore. You are a human being as much as anyone else is.   
  
        You find out within the first few weeks of being thrown out of their care that it’s hard. It’s not easy to get food. You pickpocket some money, not that you’ll admit to it. Not that you’re even seen anyway. It doesn’t matter. You just know you’re hungry. That you need food. That your body needs this, that your skin and bones. That it’s not just about being able to do things. It’s about living too. You need to eat. Your bones prickle at the thought of food.   
  
                It takes you a month or two, who’s counting? Who’s really counting? To eat sold food. You had started off with protein shakes, going through over three or four packs of them a day. It was the serum you told yourself. You were trying to adjust. Reality was that, that you were giving yourself what they gave you. That you weren’t good enough. That- food is food. It doesn’t matter what you eat. You just survive. You need it to survive. It tastes chalky and artificial and after a solid month of drinking them you stop. You stop because your stomach feels sick, and your face feels clammy and one of the flavors just makes you think HYDRA and you don’t touch the shakes again.   
  
            You skip the protein bars. The one time you had one, you recalled a memory. As much as you like your memories it had made you not want to eat and just stare at the half eaten bar. You’re still hungry. You still want to eat. You still need food. So you settle on something simple. You settle on something that’s worthwhile. You settle on fruit.   
  
     It’s sticky and sweet. And leaves a pleasant flavor on the back of your tongue. And they’re good for you. They’re healthy, and they leave you feeling refreshed. Even though you consume more than the average person. Someone calls you a vegan for it. You don’t know what the word means but that doesn’t stop you from buying two pints of strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and about two pounds of mangos. The fruit leaves residue on your fingers but it’s like candy to you. It feels good to have something so light in your stomach but also so filling. It feels good to know that you can take care of yourself somehow. That you weren’t forever lost to them. That you still are a human being underneath all that.

 

       You save the mangos for last.  It takes a few days for them to ripen but they’re your favorite. You take your time peeling them and slicing them, and you’re lying low in a shitty apartment in Romania. And you’re sitting here peeling mangos, eyes staring at the small T.V that you’ve managed to afford while slicing up mangos to devour.   
  
And it’s like heaven to you. None of the food that you got to eat in the last seventy years has been your choice. You haven’t been able to eat food that you loved. That you enjoyed, that left a pleasant taste on your tongue. It’s soothing that you’re able to eat. It’s soothing that you can make your own choices. Your fingers are covered in juice, but you don’t care. It leaves your tastebuds happy, it leaves you happy. It makes you happy. You can indulge in food. You can do things that are your own choices, that aren’t someone else. You can eat as you please.    
  
    And it’s not going to kill you. The serum you have to thank for that. Despite the amount you eat sometimes. You aren’t going to die by the sweets you eat, the fruit that you sink your teeth into. You take care of yourself. You just enjoy food. You enjoy food after not having it for over seven decades. It’s like an intoxication. And it settles a warmth into your body, your comfortable eating. And you really don’t care if people stare at you for the amount of food you eat.   
  
     You end up taking those mangos out when you go for a run. It’s midday and it’s a snack. It’s a snack and leaves your mouth tasting the acid from the fruit for hours. The sticky juice clinging to your fingers. You learn to cook. You learn to take pleasure in eating.  And small memories come back from the scents. Small facts like how chocolate was so rare and how you used to look at eggs and sugar like it was Christmas to you. And how certain things just weren’t as common during the war and the rations that had been given out.   
  
     And it passes time. Cooking, earning a living. Being yourself. You have an apartment, you feed yourself. You live. You take pleasure in the simple things, you learn to love the food you eat. You learn to love your body again. You learn to trust being along better than being with people. You aren’t perfect choosing isolation over people but it’s safer that way. You know anyone could find you if they looked hard enough.   
  
     Your teeth catch on the skin of a plum. That tart juice tickling the back of your senses. The soft breath that escapes you. You’re surprised, you like the taste. It’s familiar and it reminds you. It reminds you of something a sense of dejavu. It’s scattered but the memory is there. Fruit was another thing that wasn’t common during the war. You started to remember this when you bit into an apple one day. None the less you learn that plums are one of your favorites. But your hands up stained from the juice.   


                             You hate the fact, your meal is ruined the next time you go to get them. You never did like the marketplace.


End file.
